


(In Which Illya Kuryakin Is Not In Control Of His Own Life)

by redbrunja



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: 5 Times, 5+1 Things, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Humor, Porn with Feelings, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-09 02:34:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5522225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redbrunja/pseuds/redbrunja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Illya Kuryakin said "it's not happening" (or some variant thereof) and was completely wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(In Which Illya Kuryakin Is Not In Control Of His Own Life)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [earnmysong](https://archiveofourown.org/users/earnmysong/gifts).



5.

 

Illya recoiled from the skimpy bathing costume that Napoleon held up.

 

"I am _not_ wearing _that_ ," he managed to spit out after a moment.

 

Napoleon sighed, sounding very put-upon. "Peril, we're undercover in Rio. You're going to have to at least _attempt_ to blend in."

 

“And you think I will blend in wearing-“ Illya gestured, “ _that_?”

 

Napoleon shot him a smirk. “Don’t be so prudish. It’s much more modest than what I’ll be wearing.”

 

Illya refused to believe that was possible or imagine what that might look like.

 

“It’s not happening,” he said flatly.

 

Illya doesn’t understand how he lost that argument to Napoleon and ended up wearing the bathing suit the other man had chosen.

 

The worst part of it was that Gaby clearly thought he looked ridiculous, too. When he and Solo descended to the hotel pool and she caught sight of them, she choked on her drink and then coughed for three minutes straight.

 

4.

 

“No use pouting, Peril, it’s time for your lessons,” Napoleon said to Illya, and actually snapped his fingers.

 

Illya looked up from his chess game and glared at the other man.

 

The mission had been irritation compiled on top of irritation. One of which was the accommodations. Solo, Illya, and Gaby were all rooming together in one hotel room, the only furniture two narrow beds and a rickety table.

 

“No. It’s not happening,” he said firmly. He moved a pawn forward.

 

Clearly, his refusal hadn’t penetrated, because Napoleon’s look of delighted schadenfreude didn’t change.

 

“Bite the bullet. After the fiasco with our mark’s Ferrari-“ (Gaby, sitting cross legged on one of the hotel beds, looked completely unrepentant.) “you’ll need to know how to dance – or at least, how to not maim anyone on the dance floor this evening.”

 

Illya made a grumbling sound but– horribly – undeniably – Napoleon was right.

 

He reluctantly rose to his feet, stepping away from the table and into the narrow space between the ends of the beds and the wall.

 

Gaby hid her smirk by turning to the bedside radio, fiddling with it until she found a song she approved of. Then she settled back on the bed, eyes sparkling and fixed on the two of them.

 

Napoleon gamely tried to guide him into…. Even Illya hesitated to call what they were doing dancing.

 

“I should be leading,” Illya growled after a moment.

 

“And if you ever manage to stumble your way into finding the beat, you can,” Napoleon said brightly, clearly indicating his doubt about that ever happening. “Now- no- not like- ouch!”

 

Gaby looked terrifically amused. “I don’t remember Illya being quite this bad.”

 

Napoleon gave her a look. “You danced with it? How did you manage to escape from the dance floor unscathed?”

 

Illya stepped back, jerked his hands to his sides, his fingers curling into fists. He felt his cheeks flush.

 

Gaby shrugged, climbed off the bed, and strolled over to them. “He didn’t have a problem letting _me_ lead.”

 

“Admirably modern,” Napoleon admitted, stepping aside.

 

Gaby stepped into Napoleon’s place, put her hands on Illya’s wrists.

 

He resisted.

 

She made a soft sound and almost against his will, his hands opened, and he let her position him as she liked.

 

“I’ll be nice this time,” she promised.

 

“I don’t like this,” Illya told her, voice low. It was almost the truth. He had no skill for dancing and he knew it. And the only thing he liked less than looking like an idiot was looking like an idiot in front of Napoleon. But being in hotel room, a smoky voice singing on the radio, and the curve of Gaby’s waist under his hand? Gaby resting her head against his chest and guiding him into a slow sway?

 

There were worse things.

3.

 

When he walked into his flat the phone was ringing.

 

"Yes?" he answered brusquely. The knife wound in his arm stung as he held the phone.

 

"Solo said you were stabbed." Gaby didn’t waste time with preliminaries.

 

Illya looked up at the ceiling, prayed for patience. "Cowboy exaggerates. It was a scratch."

 

For some unfathomable reason he’d agreed to join Napoleon for dinner at a pub. He could admit that it had been a pleasant evening. Aside from the group of drunk Englishmen who hadn’t liked his accent and decided to show their displeasure by starting a bar fight. Which Illya would not have minded, except that one of them had pulled a knife and managed to get in a lucky slash before Illya had thrown him into the shelves of drinks behind the bar.

 

"I'll come over," Gaby said decisively.

 

"No," he said firmly. There was no need for her to travel across the city at 2 a.m. because he’d let some drunk Englishman draw blood. It wasn't happening.

 

Illya heard the dial tone in his ear.

 

He’d just finished sterilizing a needle, thread laid out on the bathroom counter when Gaby walked into his flat without knocking.

 

Illya frowned. Mortifying enough that the cut across his bicep undeniably needed stitching; worse that it had caused Gaby to go to such trouble.

 

“Let me see,” Gaby said, tossing her purse and coat onto his bed and joining him in the bathroom.

 

He crossed his arms over his bare chest but there was really no way to _prevent_ her from standing at his side, tipping her head to look.

 

“Sit down,” she ordered, and he did.

 

She washed her hands carefully and then set to work.

 

Illya hadn’t taken any painkillers, not even a slug or two of alcohol, but they were the most painless stitches of his life. He sat on the edge of the tub, Gaby standing next to him, and let himself focus on the dark fall of her hair, the serious look in her eyes as she worked.

 

She placed a bandage carefully over his injury and then cupped a hand around the back of his neck, drew him to her shoulder. It should have felt ridiculous, a man as large as him resting against someone so slight as Gaby. But Gaby was strong, stronger than anyone could know just by looking, and he felt so safe and lo–

 

He didn’t let himself finish that thought.

 

So safe and cared for, he corrected in his mind, while her fingers stroking the hair at the base of his skull, his forehead resting on her shoulder. He breathed in the scent of her skin.

 

2.

 

If Napoleon was here, he’s have a quip about being too far south for this to be a proper Mexican stand-off.

 

Of course, the entire problem was that he _wasn’t_ here. He’d managed to get himself kidnapped by his home agency and now Illya and Gaby were standing in a dusty Panama street facing off against three CIA agents. Everyone had their guns drawn. What worried Illya was the snipers he knew were perched on the rooftops. He didn’t dare assume that they were under-estimating Gaby. She was in their cross hairs just as he was. Illya was fast but he couldn’t protect Gaby when there were this many guns held by trained operatives.

 

“We kept our side of the bargain,” Gaby said. “Now, _where is Napoleon Solo_?”

 

The agent in charge, the only one had hadn’t pulled a weapon (more concerned with looking in control than in protecting himself) folded his arms. He was wearing an ugly tan suit.

 

“Not here,” the AIC said. “But I’m willing to take you to him. Just you –“ he jerked his chin at Illya. “I’m not about to bring that thing along with us.”

 

“That is not happening,” Illya said through his teeth, stony-faced.

 

Gaby was silent for a long moment.

 

“Fine,” she said, lowering her weapon.

 

“ _No,”_ Illya said. His gun was aimed at the chest of the AIC and he didn’t look away, not even when Gaby slipped her pistol into his pocket.

 

“Gaby,” he couldn’t help but say, his voice low. He sounded like he was bleeding out.

 

She kept her back to the CIA agents. “You’ll find me,” she said, certain. Her voice dropped even lower. Her lips barely moved as she continued. “You’ll be able to find both of us.”

 

She turned and walked away from him.

 

Illya watched her go, a slim figure in a short white dress. Just before she was shoved into a waiting jeep, she half turned to him, lifted one hand in farewell. Her bugged engagement ring glinted in the bright sunlight.

 

 

1.

 

Illya panted, lying on his back, Gaby next to him.

 

The hotel room was wrecked, couch tipped over, rugs pulled askew, the vase of complementary flowers knocked over and dripping water across the credenza and down onto the floor.

 

“I did not think that – that this would ever happen,” he admitted.

 

He hadn't. He'd wanted -oh, he'd wanted - but he'd never truly believed that one day Gaby would be writhing under him, her nails raking his shoulders, telling him how good he felt, how much she wanted him, that she loved him. Especially the last. Illya hadn't asked her to repeat herself. Even if she didn't mean it, even if she was just dizzy on lust when she said it, Illya had heard. He'd remember. He wouldn't be able to ever forget.

 

Gaby murmured in agreement. “I don’t know why we waited so long.”

 

That hadn't been what he'd meant, but Illya doubted he could explain in Russian, much less English or German.

 

She stretched against him, pressing against him. Skin against skin – it was intoxicating. Then she pushed herself up, straddled him.

 

Her smile was wicked.

 

“We should make up for lost time.”

 

(+1)

Gaby squirmed against the sheets, dug her heels into the mattress, desperate to move. Illya’s head was between her thighs, lips soft as he delicately mouthed her cunt, traced the folds of her with the tip of his tongue.

 

His hands were firm – implacable – on her thighs, holding her down, holding her open. She pressed against his touch, making him tighten his grip. She was half-drunk on the strength of him, all that power and skill focused only on her. She twisted her fingers in her own hair, back arching.

 

“I'm supposed to meet Solo in ten minutes," Gaby managed.

 

He turned his head– she shivered at the scrape of stubble against her inner thigh, moaned when he bit her gently.

 

Illya lifted his head just enough to frown at her, mouth wet, eyes the loveliest shade of blue. She reached down to swipe her thumb across his bottom lip. In the weeks he’d been gone, she’d gotten herself off to that image – Illya, his mouth slick with her, his eyes soft and bright. If he was very good, she’d tell him so. She might even show him.

 

"No. That's not happening," he argued, fingers flexing against her thighs. Gaby shivered.

 

"It would be rude to stand Solo up," Gaby protested, as if she had any objection to doing so on the average day, much less when Illya had just returned from six weeks away and was in the midst of demonstrating how much he’d missed her.

 

"Maybe I convince you?" Illya offered and then put his mouth back on her.

**Author's Note:**

> I shamelessly stole #2 from a Kensi/Deeks scene from NCIS: LA.


End file.
